The Adventure of the Decorated Box
by devilbrother
Summary: A short story detailing the adventures of a young orphan with the great detective Sherlock Holmes.


_The Adventure of the Decorated Box..._

I was filled with a certain amount of hesitation as I entered the room of 221b Baker Street, and it was with pure fear that I found myself faced with the man himself, Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, dear boy" he said, a tone bordering patronising. "What brings you to my home this fine morning?"

I thought back to the torrential rain that poured onto the streets of London outside, thinking the man must have noticed the water soaking me through. His tone never changed as he spoke the next words, always calm but never a whisper, and his gaze seemed to burn into mine as he performed a feat only the master detective from the stories could have accomplished.

"Ahhh, you have not come to me with a problem at all, have you? You are simply carrying a message from someone else. Am I correct?"

I didn't even have time to answer before he nodded to himself, and carried on.

"The gloves on your hands and the coat round your shoulders suggest that you are a working boy, but the lack of dirt or dust on your face suggests you work on the streets, selling papers to those rich enough to buy them. This combined with the coin you keep playing with in your hand lead me to believe someone offered you money to take me a message, enough money, it seems, to merit you leaving your post and come rushing down here, no matter what the weather did to stop you."

I was astonished, my eyes betraying my disbelief, but I would be damned if I was going to let him exercise his mind so easily.

"Well, Mr Holmes, I can't say I'm not impressed, but you're not the only player of that game. For instance, I can tell that you are fresh off a case, only settling to rest a moment before that dear Mrs Hudson let me through the door. I can tell that you outshone even yourself in this instance, only needing an hour alone in the room of the missing item before announcing to all that in fact it was not missing at all, simply lost. The police were amazed at this rather simple feat of logic, and while your friend Watson is reluctant to write up such a simple story, you have already begun to think of names. I have to say, Mr Holmes, I never thought you liked your friend's tales..."

The man just smiled, his dark eyebrows rising in a fake display of surprise. "I never have understood Watson's obsession with writing up my exploits" he said, "but that does not mean I can't find enjoyment in the naming of them. I find that there is a certain art to naming ones tale, the ability to give enough away to interest those who read, but the ability to keep enough hidden so the mystery is not ruined.

Now, to the matter of your sender, a Mr Hilthburn, correct?"

"Yes Mr Holmes" I replied, noticing his glance at the piece of paper the man had given me. I couldn't read it, couldn't read anything at all, in fact, but I guessed the name was scribbled on its surface. "He told me to give you this..."

I reached into my coat pocket, pulling out a small box, about the size of a fist and decorated with golden symbols all across its surface. I handed it to Mr Holmes, and he turned it in his grip, peering at its strange surface, but soon grew bored and looked back up at me. "Did he give you a key, or perhaps a code? Did this man tell you anything about this box at all?"

"I'm afraid not, sir" I said, thinking back to the man with that scar on his face, the man who's eye seemed to be hidden beneath a gash of red.

"No matter" he muttered, more to himself than to me. "No matter at all... Listen, boy, I would like you to return tomorrow. You seem to have a good eye, or a good ear at least. I assume you did hear your _deductions _by listening in on the conversation downstairs?"

It was true, but I kept silent. Holmes carried on.

"Well, someone like you could be very useful to me. I would like you to meet me again tomorrow and we can discuss this _Mr Hilthburn _further..."

With that, I turned and left the great detectives house, but not before hearing talk of the next great case the detective was sure to solve...

I returned, as requested by Mr Homes, to 221b Baker Street the following morning, quickly ushered through by the aging Mrs Hudson. After offering the room cups of tea and a number of food items I had only heard of from the rich families so often pickpocket by me and my friends, she hurried away, and I took my seat.

Holmes was not alone in the room this time, and a man famous to the few who _could_ read on the street sat beside him, the close companion and teller of tales, John Watson. They were talking as I sat down; speaking of a circus, Holmes explaining that he was sure the circus would be the answer, convinced of it. Watson listened intently, as did I, until finally, after what seemed an age, Mr Holmes turned to me.

"I saw your face when I read the name off of that piece of paper you were given by Mr Hilthburn. It wasn't a face of understanding, I can tell you that, which leads me to a question: how does a boy such as you speak so proper, and yet be unable to read?"

I looked at him for a moment, deciding whether or not this man was to be trusted, until I gave in, and told him about my past.

"I spent some time in a circus when I was young, and a lot of rich people came to play our games. It was my job to entice them in, to persuade them that they would serve to win more than then they would pay to enter. It was all lies, of course, but I got quite good at it. Quickly I realised that people respond better to someone they think of as equal, not some urchin dragged of the street, not an orphan out to pickpocket and steal. And so, like many who held my job, I learned to speak like them."

"My god Holmes, it's exactly as you said!" exclaimed Watson, looking at me eyes wide. "What an extraordinary life, my boy!"

"Indeed" said Holmes, clearly bored of the trivial deductions that lead him to such a conclusion. "Now, to the matter of the locked box..."

"Yes" I said, "the locked box..."

"Let us start with your name..."

"Max. Max Curtwell" I replied, Holmes's eyes locked into mine.

"You were born with this name?"

"Yes, though I hardly see how it matters..."

"It might not matter at all, Max, but then again, it might. My current theory is that this man sent you to me for a reason, you see, and it may help me dispel this idea if I know a little more about your past."

"Very well" I exclaimed, still unsure how such inquiries could help.

"So, Max Curtwell, you say this man approached you in the street and simply handed you the box. What did he say to you? What exactly made you come with the object to me?"

"He told me that it was of the upmost importance that you receive this package, and that the contents should be handled carefully. They were to be protected, in fact."

"I see... Well, let us look at this box of his..." With that Mr Holmes reached down, pulling out the box, half concealed beneath a boot. He placed it in his lap, and I studied its strange surface, gazing over the odd shapes and buttons that adorned its surface. Golden lines encircled around it, jutting out slightly from the rest of the cube, and shapes of stars and animals seemed to be engraved into it. It was a strange, marvellous thing, but alas, there seemed to be no way of opening it, not even a clear line where the gap between the two parts would be.

"I have my own theories about this box, but I would like to hear yours and Watson's" said Mr Holmes. "If that would be acceptable."

Watson spoke first, looking at the object with intense concentration. I realised quickly that this was the first time he had seen it, this wonderful box, and I listened with interest to his theory. "I believe it may not be what we have been led to believe, my dear friend. I think perhaps the information it contains isn't on the inside, but-"

"Is on the surface of the cube itself. Yes..." interrupted Holmes. "I came to a similar conclusion myself. What about you, master Curtwell?"

I looked at it once more, studying the way the shapes carved in and extruded out, the way the lines wrapped around it like... Like...

"Roads... I think perhaps it is not writing, but a map. The way the symbols aren't all level suggest either hills or dips in the land, and the animals could show the local wildlife..."

"It seems a bit far-fetched, perhaps" replied Holmes, "but certainly possible. Yes, I shall have to think on it..." With that, he abruptly stood up, turned around, and walked straight out of the room, a pipe in one hand and the box in the other...

I was only waiting for a moment in that room when, to my surprise, and apparently that of Watson, the door received three heavy knocks.

There was silence for a moment, no-one moving to answer it, no-one even glancing towards the door, until Mr Holmes rushed into the room, pulling the door open and shouting much louder than I'm sure he was meant to "THERES BEEN A MURDER! Come on Watson, follow me, and Max, you can join us as well, if you wish!" I nodded, but no-body took any notice, even the normally calm Watson rushing to get out of the house. We pushed past the stunned police officer that had created the noise, and found ourselves running to a Horse and Cart already in waiting, already armed to take Sherlock Holmes wherever he needed to be.

We climbed into the Taxi, the horse's hoofs clattering their regular tune on the cobbled ground, and the sound of whistling coming from the driver up front.

"So, inspector Lestrade, any information you can give us?" bellowed Holmes, fighting to be heard over the noises of industrial London.

"I'm afraid I know little, only that it is the body of a woman, and that she has not been identified."

"Hmm, shame. Do you know how she died?"

"Yes, there was a bullet wound through the side of her head, but no-body saw the attacker. In fact, no-body heard a gunshot at all..."

"I assume she was found in the street?"

"Yes, indeed Mr Holmes... Perhaps someone dumped her body here after killing her somewhere else?"

"Yes, perhaps..."

The rest of the journey was sat through in silence, Holmes brooding to himself, Watson writing notes down into a small book he kept inside his coat pocket. Even Lestrade had something to do, playing about with a revolver held in his grip, something even he clearly could see no reason to do. But that left me, left me thinking of the extraordinary two days I had just lived, meeting Sherlock Holmes, being pulled into this mystery of the decorated box, and now this, a murder! This was truly shaping up to be an interesting week...

Eventually we arrived, entering the coroner's office, and I found myself looking, for the first time, at a corpse. Her skin was a ghostly pale, her hair a fiery red, stained by dried blood, no doubt from the shattered remains of her face. It was not a nice thing to see, a hole so large no single bullet could have created, and a look of pure terror scarring what was left of a mouth.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, whispering mostly to himself, but not so quiet the others present could not hear. "The killer was smart, very smart indeed. The one clue we could have obtained from this body, a bullet lodged in the skull, has been removed. The killer stuck their arm inside the poor woman's head, and pulled the bullet out themselves, hence such a large hole..."

There was a pause, Sherlock looking over the body with a coldness about him, until Watson clasped my shoulder and began guiding me out. "You shouldn't have to see this, poor boy..."

I was almost out of the door when Sherlock's voice erupted from the corner. "Her teeth! Look at her teeth! You say her identity was unknown, yes?" he said, looking at Lestrade. "Well, it's obvious! Look at her teeth. They are stained a deep yellow, something odd don't you think? Watson, tell me if I'm wrong, but I believe such a colouring can come from high purity alcohol stains, yes?"

"Quite right, but it would have to be almost entirely pure to stain such a dark colour..."

"Indeed. Now, whose teeth would be in contact with pure alcohol on a regular basis?"

"I have to say I am not following your-"

Holmes shook his head, interrupting Watson's doubts, and turning to look at me.

"It is thank to you, Max Curtwell, that this thought even crossed my mind! The circus! She was from the Circus!"

I began to think, realising what he meant. "She was a fire breather! That's why the teeth are yellow, fire breathers light alcohol inside their mouths to produce the effect of fire!"

"And that's why nobody knew who she was" Watson remarked, "Nobody remembers the face of a circus performer..."

"So, Lestrade," Mr Holmes added, "shall I begin your investigation into this grisly crime?"

"Well, I suppose I can't exactly stop you..."

"Great. Now, everyone, to the circus!"

The circus was incredible, a sea of colours and noises, an explosion of strangeness so consuming that I'm sure I wasn't the only one who felt at home. Huge, multi-coloured tents lined the grass field, acts inside that promised to dazzle and amaze, men taller than possible stumbling around, stilts hidden by patchwork cloth. Even the visitors, normal folk like you or I just wanting a family trip, even they seemed to be bright, seemed to be full of a kind of life unseen anywhere else in London. And then there was us, a group of four wandering through the place equally amused and disgusted.

"Why, these people seem to act as if one of their number hasn't just gone missing!" murmured Watson.

"It's their way of life" replied Sherlock.

"The show must go on" I muttered, reminding myself of my days in the world of the circus, remembering how even when you were spewing vomit all over the floor, the ring master would insist you carry on, always working, barely sleeping.

But it was a fun life, an interesting one, and for all its troubles, I found myself missing it, missing the excitement of it all. But then, what was I to think of excitement when now I was, with the likes of Sherlock Holmes himself, no doubt, on the tail of a killer.

We passed many more wondrous sites, men strong enough to lift any member of the audience willing to pay enough, fortune tellers describing a future that would never be, women contorting their bodies into shapes that seemed altogether impossible. There was an air of the strange, an air of something altogether dangerous. People were all around, not walking to the performers, however, many not even looking at them, but all amassing themselves into a crowd.

And it was then, in the middle of that crowd, that we saw it.

An elephant, so large, so great, so powerful. Roaring above the sea of people, huge white tusks rising into the air like the tower of London itself, a noise so deafening, so terrible and full of pain, so deeply harrowing. It was just a beast, but the way it screamed...

"This is disgraceful!" boomed Lestrade. He began to march forward, ready to shout at the man standing next to the creature, the man poking the beast with a burning rod, the man taunting it, making it scream... But no, he was pulled back by Holmes and Watson, both persuading him that he could do no good.

"This is what happens, I'm afraid. There is little we can, little except leave this place and feed these monsters no more money than they already have." Watson was right, of course, but even I, a boy growing up with people who would be happy to hold such a creature, felt sickened by its treatment.

"Wait a moment" snapped Mr Holmes. "Look, over there... It's a board, the names of highest bidders written on its surface. They are selling this creature... And look, look at the top. The highest bidder, a Mr Hilthburn..."

I looked, stunned. This was the man who gave me the box, the man who sent me to Sherlock Holmes in the first place. This was the man I was, effectively, working for.

And then, stepping from the crowd gathered around the beast, a man so immaculately dressed he could only be a performer, began walking towards us. His small features and large head stuck out from his purple suit, and with a slight annoyance in his voice, he spoke.

"So, the great detective comes to my circus..."

He led us to a private tent, the place this ringmaster slept, ate and drank. He never stopped watching me, always staring into my eyes with the minuteness of his, even when Sherlock began his questioning.

"What is your name?"

"Ratta Tale..."

"Is that your real name?"

"No..."

"Very well... Have you been informed of the death of one of your troop?"

"I'm afraid not."

"A fire breather, red hair and blue eyes."

"Ah, well, Miss Scarlet... And no, before you ask, that is not her real name. I'm afraid she has not been one of us for quite some time. She left to make her own way in the world. And I hear she did quite a good job of it, too..."

"How long ago did she leave?"

"About two months, I'm afraid."

"Hmm. Now, to the matter of the elephant..."

"Oh, I wasn't aware he was a matter at all!"

"Well, he is, and I'm afraid more so than you may think."

"Really? May I ask how?"

"The highest bidder, a mister Hilthburn. He has been in contact with me, and I have obtained a strange, decorated box of his. Does this mean anything to you?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Holmes, all I know is that Mr Hilthburn is a rich and powerful man. I shall be pleased to hand over my dear beast to him, so long as he pays."

"And in the meantime, you intent to hurt and torture it?"

"I intend to control it, yes..."

"And do you know what Mr Hilthburn intends to do with it?"

"I think I do. He wishes to kill it, to sell off its meat and to become rich, just like all of mankind."

"Thank you... You have made things very clear for me..."

"My pleasure, Mr Holmes..."

With that, we walked away from the tent, away from the creature, away from the circus entirely. We walked in silence, for the most part, Holmes no doubt brooding over the recent events, but it was clear to me that agitation on his face. Finally, Watson spoke, ending the silence that ate each and every one of us up.

"So, what was that? All the questions about the elephant?"

"Work, my dear Watson. Nothing more, nothing less..."

And with that, we returned to Baker Street, where Holmes sat in a long silence, smoking his pipe, and thinking. Always thinking...

"I understand" whispered Holmes.

Then louder; "I understand!"

"Where does Mr Hilthburn live? Watson, find it out! Max, I have need of you once more! He is a damnable man, for sure, but to truly punish him, I am going to need your assistance!"

"Of-course, what can I do?"

"You are, of course, a talented actor are you not? Your time in the circus, your ability to learn voices, it all points to an ability to act. Well, I am going to need you to be convincing today, my dear boy! I'm going to need you to be convincing indeed.

Watson, do you have his address?"

Watson shook his head. "How do you expect me to find it out at all, Holmes?"

"Go! Go, for goodness sake! Go to inspector Lestrade, he can help you in your task! Now hurry, I want this over with quickly!"

The detective turned to me, then, a smile on his face only possible by someone surprised with his own intellect. "Now to you! You shall play the role of an injured orphan, and will find yourself beneath a horse and cart, crying and in desperate need for help. This Hilthburn, wishing to appear a gentleman, will exit his house and offer to help you. You must keep him outside for as long as you can, until my work inside his home is complete. Inspector Lestrade will then pull you onto the horse and cart, and take you off to a doctor, our Watson in fact. Later tonight we shall reconvene, and I swear that all shall become clear."

And so it was that I found myself outside a huge house, down a cobbled London street, surrounded by crowds of people I was sure didn't really care for my wellbeing, only for their own appearance. I lay underneath a cart, screaming and groaning as if the horses had charged straight into me. I searched the crowd, looking for that man with the scarred eye, and sure enough he was there, looking down at me with an heir of recognition in his eyes. Far away, past the sea of faces, I saw Holmes, too, picking the lock on the man's home. He entered quickly, the crowd too busy looking at me to notice, and within only a minute or two, he stepped out, a beaming smile on his lips. He closed the door behind him, walked away from the commotion, and signalled to the police officer hiding in the shadows.

Lestrade charged over, a full accent dominating his voice, looming over me in such away I wasn't sure if he was acting or not. "Get up you little urchin! Get up! I'll take you to a doctor, not that you need it." Then, addressing the crowd, "Clear away now, clear away! Go home; you've done what you can!"

And simple as that, it was over, and I found myself once again by the warm fire of 221b Baker Street.

"So, do you wish to explain yourself, Holmes?" Watson asked, wondering, like the rest of us, what on earth the days rather odd events were for.

"I do, in fact. But I'm afraid you may have to wait just a little longer. If I am not mistaken, today marks the end of the bidding on the prize elephant our circus has so kindly decided to sell. I am also sure it will have been sold to our Mr Hilthburn, the cruel man. He will be arriving to collect the box he so kindly handed us but two days ago, I think. Ah, that will be him now..."

As if on cue, the door was knocked upon, and an eager Miss Hudson ushered the guest into the room. The guest being, of course, Mr Hilthburn, scarred eye and all.

"Mr Holmes..."

"Mr Hilthburn..."

"You have come for the box?"

"I have..."

"I don't intend to give it to you."

"I'm afraid it is mine."

"I'm afraid it _was _yours. You are not getting it back."

"May I ask why?"

"Of-course. You see, this has proved to be a very interesting puzzle, and one full of coincidence. When I first saw max here, I thought you sent me him for a reason. You did not, correct? It was by pure chance.

Well, it was good of you, because without this boy you may have gotten away with your damnable acts. I am afraid to say, however, you have not. What you intend to do with this creature is abhorrent. Killing such a beast, selling its meat, meat that may not even be edible, in fact, it is simply wrong. The moment I learnt this is what you wanted to do, I decided you would not receive your box."

"I have to ask, how do you intend to it from me?"

"I think I shall have you arrested..."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"I'm sorry to break it to you, I really am, but you can't have someone arrested because you don't like what they are doing."

"True, my fellow, but you _can_ have them arrested for murder. For the murder of the fire breather, Miss Scarlet..."

"Murder? You say I have committed murder? What proof do you have? What could possibly be my motive?"

"I was hoping you would ask me something such as that... Well, I shall answer the latter part of your question first, the motive.

The thing is, Mr Hilthburn, you are smart, you really are, but I'm afraid your greed has lead you to make mistakes. You see, when I was informed that this Miss Scarlet had not, in fact, been a part of the circus for a long while, and still nobody recognised her, it left only one conclusion. She came to London for an event, a gathering, perhaps, or maybe an auction. She, like you, wanted to buy the elephant, didn't she? Only she was willing to pay more. What better way of removing the competition than by murder, after all?"

"The answer to that question would be none, Mr Holmes. Still, I am interested, what proof do you have?"

"Well, on that, I was stuck for a while. Until I figured out what the box was, however. It was clear to me that you had, in some way or another, given me the task of protecting your money. Someone as evil as you has to be careful of those equally as devious, after all. It was this distrust, however, that lead you to hand me not just the money, no, you could never trust an outsider with that. The box was not a sealed container, was not a map, was not even a message. It was a key..."

"Well, you have certainly proved your intellect. I had it hand crafted, and it cost me a lot of coin. A pretty little thing, though. Still, however, I fail to see what evidence you intend to use against me."

"Well, Mr Hilthburn, I found a way into your house. I found a way into your study, in fact. And, using the key you so kindly handed me, and I opened up the safe, expecting to find money. And money I found, of course, a mountain of it. But there was something else. Something small and metal. It looked, if I say so myself, like a bullet. The very bullet removed from Miss Scarlets skull! It seems even the most unlikely killers keep their trophies!"

"Very good, very well done. In fact, incredible. You got me, I killed her, and I would kill again, if it brought me wealth. But I'm afraid it is of no use. You see, you found the bullet, but you didn't find the gun. The gun that will, it pains me to say, end your life..."

And with that, he pulled out a large, steel revolver from his pocket, pointing it straight at Sherlock Holmes, finger pressed around the trigger. "I am sorry, Mr Holmes, but you should have kept your brains to yourself." And with that, he fired.

And nothing happened. He fired again, but once more, nothing. Just the grinning face of Holmes looking up. "The thing is" he explained, "while I was searching your home for a safe, I couldn't help noticing a bulge in your coat pocket. I looked inside, and to my surprise, I found a gun. I took the liberty of removing the bullets, I hope you don't mind. After all, when could you ever have need for _them_?"

Mr Hilthburn was taken to Scotland Yard after that, and put on trial for the murder of an innocent woman, the attempted murder of a minor, and for having the personality of a devil. He was sentenced to hang, and with the help of inspector Lestrade, Sherlock was given the money inside the safe, a payment for his assistance in solving the recent murder, they said.

The circus elephant was bought by an anonymous buyer, and was quickly shipped off to where it came from, living a life like it always should have.

And me? Well, I learnt to read and write, being taught by John Watson himself. I hoped that one day I could write a book myself; write a book about my own adventure. A book named, perhaps, _The Adventure of the Decorated Box..._


End file.
